Читать книгу The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6 - Эжен Сю - Страница 1

To the deep snow which had fallen during the past night had succeeded a very sharp wind, so that the ordinarily muddy pavement was hard and dry, as Rigolette and Rodolph wended onwards to the immense and singular bazar called the Temple, the young girl leaning unceremoniously on the arm of her cavalier, who, on his part, appeared as much at his ease as though they had been old familiar friends.

"What a funny old woman Madame Pipelet is!" observed the grisette to her companion; "and what very odd things she says!"

"Well, I thought her remarks very striking, as well as appropriate."

"Which of them, neighbour?"

"Why, when she said 'Young people would be young people,' and 'Vive l'amour!'"

"Well?"

"Well! I only mean to say those are precisely my sentiments."

"Your sentiments?"

"Yes, I should like nothing better than to pass my youth with you, taking 'Vive l'amour!' for my motto."

"I dare say, for certainly you are not hard to please."

"Why, where would be the harm, – are we not near neighbours? Of course we are, or else I should not be seen walking out with you in this manner in broad day."

"Then you allow me to hope – "

"Hope what?"

"That you will learn to love me."

"Oh, bless you, I do love you already!"

"Really?"

"To be sure I do. Why, how can I help it? You are good and gay; though poor yourself, you have done all in your power by interesting rich people in the fate of the Morels; your appearance pleases me; and you have altogether a nice look, and a sort of air such as one is glad to find in a person we expect to go about with a great deal. So there, I think, are abundant reasons for my loving you."

Then, suddenly breaking into loud fits of laughter, Rigolette abruptly exclaimed, "Look there, only look at that fat woman with the furred shoes! What does she remind you of? I'll tell you, – of a great sack being drawn along by two cats without tails!" and again she laughed merrily.

"I would rather look at you, my pretty neighbour, than at all the fat old women or tailless cats in Europe. I am so delighted to find you already love me."

"I only tell you the truth; if I disliked you, I should speak just as plainly. I cannot reproach myself with ever having deceived or flattered any one; but, if a person pleases me, I tell them so directly."

Again interrupting the thread of her discourse, the grisette drew up suddenly before the windows of a shop, saying, "Oh, do pray only look at that pretty clock and those two handsome vases! I had already saved up three francs and a half, and had put it in my money-box, to buy such a set as that. In five or six years I might have been able to buy them."

"Saved up, do you say? Then, I suppose, you earn – "

"At least thirty sous a day, – sometimes forty; but I never reckon upon more than thirty, which is the more prudent; and I regulate all my expenses accordingly," said Rigolette, with an air as important as though she was settling the financial budget.

"But with thirty sous a day, how do you manage to live?"

"Oh, bless you! that is easily reckoned. Shall I tell you how I manage, neighbour? I fancy you are rather extravagant in your notions; so, perhaps, it may serve as a lesson for you."

"Yes, pray do."

"Well, then, thirty sous a day make five and forty francs a month, do they not?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, out of that I pay twelve francs for lodging; that leaves me twenty-three francs for food, etc."

"Is it possible? Twenty-three francs for one month's food!"

"Yes, really, all that! Certainly, for such a person as myself, it does seem an enormous sum; but then, you see, I deny myself nothing."

"Oh, you little glutton!"

"Ah! but then, remember, I include the food for both my birds in that sum."

"Certainly it seems less exorbitant, when you come to reckon, for three than for one; but just tell me how you manage day by day, that I may profit by your good example."

"Well, then, be attentive, and I will go over the different things I spend in it. First of all, one pound of bread, that costs four sous; then two sous' worth of milk make six; four sous' worth of vegetables in winter, or fruit and salad in summer, – I am very found of salad, because, like vegetables, it is such a nice clean thing to prepare, and does not soil the hands; there goes ten sous at once; then three sous for butter, or oil and vinegar, to season the salad with, that makes thirteen sous; a pail of nice fresh water, – oh, I must have that! it is my principal extravagance, – that brings it to fifteen sous, don't you see? Then add two or three sous a week for chickweed and seed for my birds, who generally have part of my bread and milk; all this comes to exactly twenty-three francs a month, neither more nor less."

"And do you never eat meat?"

"Meat, indeed! I should think not. Why, it costs from ten to twelve sous a pound! A likely thing for me to buy! Besides, there is all the nuisance and smell of cooking; instead of which, milk, vegetables, or fruit, are always ready when you wish for them. I tell you what is a favourite dish of mine, without being troublesome to prepare, and which I excel in making."

"Oh, pray let me know what it is?"

"Why, I get some beautiful ripe, rosy apples, and put them at the top of my little stove; when they are quite tender, I bruise them with a little milk, and just a taste of sugar. It is a dish for an emperor. If you behave well, I will let you taste it some day."

"Prepared by your hands, it can scarcely fail being excellent; but let us keep to our reckoning. Let me see, we counted twenty-three francs for living, etc., and twelve francs for lodging; that makes thirty-five francs a month."

"Well, then, out of the forty-five or fifty francs I earn, there remains from ten to fifteen francs a month for my wood and oil during the winter, as well as for my clothes and washing; that is to say, for soap and other requisites; because, excepting my sheets, I wash my own things; that is another of my extravagances, – a good laundress would pretty well ruin me; while, as I am a very quick and good ironer, the expense is principally that of my own time. During the five winter months I burn a load and a half of wood, while I consume about four or five sous' worth of oil for my lamp daily; that makes it cost me about eighty francs a year for fire and lights."

"So that you have, in fact, scarcely one hundred francs to clothe yourself, and find you in pocket money."

"No more; yet out of that sum I managed to save my three francs and a half."

"But your gowns, your shoes, – this smart little cap?"

"As for caps, I never wear one but when I go out, so that is not ruinous; and, at home, I go bareheaded. As for my gowns and boots, have I not got the Temple to go to for them?"

"Ah, yes, this convenient, handy Temple! So you buy there?"

"All sorts of pretty and excellent dresses. Why, only imagine, great ladies are accustomed to give their old, cast-off gowns, etc., to their maids. When I say old, I mean that, perhaps, they have worn them for a month or two, just to ride out in the carriage. Well, and then the ladies' maids sell them to the persons who have shops at the Temple for almost nothing. Just look at the nice dark merino dress I have on; well, I only gave fourteen francs for it, when, I make no doubt, it cost at least sixty, and had scarcely been put on. I altered it to fit myself; and I flatter myself it does me credit."

"Indeed, it does, and very great credit, too. Yes, I begin to see now, thanks to the Temple, you really may contrive to make a hundred francs a year suffice for your dress."

"To be sure; why, I can buy in the summer sweet pretty gowns for five or six francs; boots, like these I have on, and almost new, for two or three francs a pair; just look at my boots. Now, would not any one say they had been made for me?" said Rigolette, suddenly stopping, and holding up one of her pretty little feet, really very nicely set off by the well-fitting boot she wore.

"It is, indeed, a charming foot; but you must have some difficulty in getting fitted. However, I suppose, at the Temple, they keep shoes and boots of all sizes, from a woman's to a child's."

"Ah, neighbour, I begin to find out what a terrible flatterer you are. However, after what I have told you, you must see now that a young girl, who is careful, and has only herself to keep, may manage to live respectably on thirty sous a day; to be sure, the four hundred and fifty francs I brought out of prison with me helped me on famously, for when people saw that I had my own furniture in my apartments, they felt more confidence in entrusting me with work to take home. I was some time, though, before I met with employment. Fortunately for me, I had kept by me as much money as enabled me to live three months without earning anything."

"Shall I own to you that, under so gay and giddy a manner, I scarcely expected to hear so much sound sense as that uttered by your pretty mouth, my good neighbour?"

"Ah! but let me tell you that, when one is all alone in the world, and has no wish to be under any obligation, it is quite necessary, as the proverb says, to mind how we build our nest, to take care of it when it is built."

"And certainly yours is as charming a nest as the most fastidious bird could desire."

"Yes, isn't it? for, as I say, I never refuse myself anything. Now, I consider my chamber as above my means; in fact, too handsome for one like me; then I have two birds; always, at least, two pots of flowers on my mantelpiece, without reckoning those on the window-ledges; and yet, as I told you, I had actually got three francs and a half in my money-box, towards the ornaments I hoped some day to be able to buy for my mantelpiece."

"And what became of this store?"

"Oh, why, lately, when I saw the poor Morels so very, very wretched, I said to myself, 'What is the use of hoarding up these stupid pieces of money, and letting them lie idle in a money-box, when good and honest people are actually starving for want of them?' So I took out the three francs, and lent them to Morel. When I say lent, I mean I told him I only lent them, to spare his feelings; but, of course, I never meant to have them back again."

"Yes, but my dear neighbour, you cannot refuse to let them repay you, now they are so differently situated."

"Why, no; I think if Morel were to offer them to me now, I should not refuse them; it will, at any rate, enable me to begin my store for buying the chimney ornaments I do so long to possess. You would scarcely believe how silly I am; but I almost dream of a beautiful clock, such a one as I showed you just now, and two lovely vases, one on each side."

"But, then, you should think a little of the future."

"What future?"

"Suppose you were to be ill, for instance."

"Me ill? Oh, the idea!" And the fresh, hearty laugh of Rigolette resounded through the street.

"Well, why should you not be?"

"Do I look like a person likely to be sick?"

"Certainly I never saw a more bright or blooming countenance."

"Well, then, what could possibly have put it into your head to talk such nonsense as to suppose I could ever be ill?"

"Nay, but – "

"Why, I am only eighteen years of age, and, considering the sort of life I lead, there is no chance of such a thing. I rise at five o'clock, winter or summer; I am never up after ten, or, at latest, eleven; I eat sufficient to satisfy my appetite, which certainly is not a very great one; I do not suffer from exposure to cold; I work all day, singing as merrily as a lark; and at night I sleep like a dormouse. My heart is free, light, and happy. My employers are so well satisfied with what I do for them, that I am quite sure not to want for work; so what is there for me to be ill about? It really is too amusing to hear you try to talk sense, and only utter nonsense! Me ill!" And, at the very absurdity of the idea, Rigolette again burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, so loud and prolonged that a stout gentleman who was walking before her, carrying a dog under his arm, turned around quite angrily, believing all this mirth was excited by his presence.

Resuming her composure, Rigolette slightly curtseyed to the stout individual, and pointing to the animal under his arm, said:

"Is your dog so very tired, sir?"

The fat man grumbled out some indistinct reply, and continued on his way.

"My dear neighbour," said Rodolph, "are you losing your senses?"

"It is your fault if I am."

"How so?"

"Because you talk such nonsense to me."

"Do you call my saying that perhaps you might be ill, talking foolishly?"

And, once more overcome by the irresistible mirth awakened by the absurdity of Rodolph's suggestion, Rigolette again relapsed into long and hearty fits of laughter; while Rodolph, deeply struck by this blind, yet happy reliance upon the future, felt angry with himself for having tried to shake it, though he almost shuddered as he pictured to himself the havoc a single month's illness would make in this peaceful mode of life. Then the implicit reliance entertained by Rigolette on the stability of her employ, and her youthful courage, her sole treasures, struck Rodolph as breathing the very essence of pure and contented innocence; for the confidence expressed by the young dressmaker arose neither from recklessness nor improvidence, but from an instinctive dependence and belief in that divine justice which would never forsake a virtuous and industrious creature, – a simple girl, whose greatest crime was in relying too confidently on the blessed gifts of youth and health, the precious boon of a heavenly benefactor. Do the birds of the air remember, as they flit on gay and agile wing amidst the blue skies of summer, or skim lightly over the sweet-smelling fields of blooming lucerne, that bleak, cold winter must follow so much enjoyment?

"Then," said Rodolph to the grisette, "it seems you have no wish for anything more than you already possess?"

"No, really I have not."

"Positively, nothing you desire?"

"No, I tell you. Stay, yes, now I recollect, there are those sweet pretty chimney ornaments; but I shall be sure to have them some of these days, though I do not know exactly when; but still, they do so run in my head, that, sooner than be disappointed, I will sit up all night to work."

"And besides these ornaments?"

"Oh, nothing more; no, I cannot recollect any one other thing I care for more especially now."

"Why now, particularly?"

"Because, yesterday, if you had asked me the same question, I should have replied, there was nothing I wanted more than an agreeable neighbour in your apartments, to give me an opportunity of showing all the little acts of kindness I have been accustomed to perform, and to receive nice little attentions in return."

"Well, but you know, my dear neighbour, we have already entered into an agreement to be mutually serviceable to each other; you will look after my linen for me, and I shall clean up and polish your chamber for you; and besides attending to my linen, you are to wake me every morning early by tapping against the wainscot."

"And do you think you have named all I shall expect you to do?"

"What else can I do?"

"Oh, bless you, you have not yet come to the end of your services! Why, do you not intend to take me out every Sunday, either to the Boulevards or beyond the barriers? You know that is the only day I can enjoy a little pleasure."

"To be sure I do; and when summer comes we will go into the country."

"No, no, I hate the country! I cannot bear to be anywhere but in Paris. Yet I used, once upon a time, to go, out of good nature, with a young friend of mine, who was with me in prison, to visit Meudon and St. Germain. My friend was a very nice, good girl, and because she had such a sweet voice, and was always singing, people used to call her the Goualeuse."

"And what has become of her?"

"I don't know. She spent all the money she brought with her out of prison, without seeming to have much pleasure for it; she was inclined to be mournful and serious, though kind and sympathising to every one. At the time we used to go out together I had not met with any work to do, but directly I procured employment, I never allowed myself a holiday. I gave her my address, but, as she never came to see me, I suppose she, like myself, was too busy to spare the time. But I dare say you don't care to hear any more about her; I only mentioned it because I wanted to show you that it is no use asking me to go into the country with you, for I never did, and never will go there, except with the young friend I was telling you about; but whenever you can afford to take me out to dinner or to the play, I shall be quite ready to accompany you, and when it does not suit you to spend the money, or when you have none to spend, why then we will take a walk, and have a good look at the shops, which is almost the nicest thing I know, unless it is buying at them. And I promise you, you shall have no reason to feel ashamed of my appearance, let us go out among ever such company. Oh, when I wear my dark blue levantine silk gown, I flatter myself I do look like somebody! It is such a love of a dress, and fits me so beautifully! I never wear it but on Sundays, and then I put on such a love of a lace cap, trimmed with shaded orange-colour riband, which looks so well with dark hair like mine; then I have some such elegant boots of satin hue, made for me, not bought at the Temple! And last of all comes such a shawl! Oh, neighbour, I doubt if you ever walked with any one in such perfect beauty; it is a real bourre-de-soie, in imitation of cashmere. I quite expect we shall be stared at and admired by every one as we go along; the men will look back as they pass me, and say, 'Upon my word that's an uncommon pretty-looking girl, – she is, 'pon honour!' Then the women will cry, 'What a stylish-looking man! Do you see that tall, thin person? I declare, he has such a fashionable appearance that he might pass as somebody if he liked; what a becoming and handsome moustachio he has!' And between ourselves, neighbour, I quite agree with these remarks, and especially about the moustachio, for I dearly love to see a man wear them. Unfortunately M. Germain did not wear a moustachio, on account of the situation he held; I believe his employer did not permit his young men to wear them. To be sure, M. Cabrion did wear moustachios, but then, his were quite red, like his great bushy beard, and I hate those huge beards; and besides, I did not like Cabrion for two other reasons; one was, he used to play all kinds of scampish tricks out in the street, and the other thing I disliked was his tormenting poor old Pipelet as he did. Certainly, M. Giraudeau, the person who lived next to me before M. Cabrion, was rather a smart-looking man, and dressed very well; but then he squinted, and at first that used to put me out very much, because he always seemed to be looking past me at some one by my side, and I always found myself, without thinking of it, turning around to see who it could be."

And here Rigolette indulged in another peal of merry laughter.

As Rodolph listened to all this childish and voluble talk, he felt almost at a loss how to estimate the pretensions of the grisette to be considered of first-rate prudence and virtue; sometimes the very absence of all reserve in her communications, and the recollection of the great bolt on her door, made him conclude that she bore a general and platonic affection only for every occupant of the chamber adjoining her own, and that her interest in them was nothing more than that of a sister; but again he smiled at the credulity which could believe such a thing possible, when the unprotected condition of the young dressmaker, and the fascinations of Messrs. Giraudeau, Cabrion, and Germain were taken into account. Still, the frankness and originality of Rigolette made him pause in the midst of his doubts, and refuse to allow him to judge harshly of the ingenuous and light-hearted being who tripped beside him.

"I am delighted at the way you have disposed of my Sundays," said Rodolph, gaily. "I see plainly we shall have some capital treats."

"Stop a little, Mr. Extravagance, and let me tell you how I mean to regulate our expenses; in the summer we can dine beautifully, either at the Chartreuse or the Montmartre hermitage, for three francs, then half a dozen quadrilles or waltzes, and a ride upon the wooden horses, – oh, I do so love riding on horseback! – well, that will bring it altogether to about five francs, not a farthing more, I assure you. Do you waltz?"

"Yes, very well."

"I am glad of that. M. Cabrion always trod on my toes, so that he quite put me out; and then, too, by way of a joke, he used to throw fulminating balls about on the ground; so at last the people at the Chartreuse would not allow us to be admitted there."

"Oh, I promise you to be very well behaved whenever we are met together; and as for the fulminating balls, I promise you never to have anything to do with them; but when winter comes, how shall we manage then?"

"Why, in the winter we shall be able to dine very comfortably for forty sous. I think people never care so much for eating in the winter as summer; so then we shall have three francs left to pay for our going to the play, for I shall not allow you to exceed a hundred sous for the whole of our expenses, and that is a great deal of money to spend in pleasure; but then, if you were out alone, it would cost you much more at the tavern or billiard-rooms, where you would only meet a parcel of low, ignorant men, smelling of tobacco enough to choke you. Is it not much better for you to pass a pleasant day with a nice little, cheerful, good-tempered companion, who, in return for the holiday you so agreeably pass with her, will contrive to make up the extra expense she costs you by hemming your handkerchiefs, and looking after your domestic affairs?"

"Nothing can be more advantageous, as far as I am concerned; but suppose any of my friends should meet me walking with my pretty neighbour, what then?"

"What then! Why, they would just look at you, and then at me; and then they would smile and say, 'That's a lucky fellow, that Rodolph!'"

"You know my name, do you?"

"Why, of course, when I heard that the chamber adjoining mine was let, I inquired the name of the person who had taken it."

"Yes, I dare say every one who met us out together would remark, as you observe, what a lucky fellow I was; then the next thing would be to envy me."

"So much the better."

"They would believe I was perfectly happy."

"Of course, of course they would."

"All the while I should only be so in appearance."

"Well, what does that signify? As long as people think you happy, what does it matter whether you are really so or not? Men neither require nor care for more than outward show."

"But your reputation might suffer."

Rigolette burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

"The reputation of a grisette!" said she. "Do you suppose that any person believes in such a phenomenon? Ah, if I had either father, mother, brother, or sister, for their sakes I should fear what people might say of me, and be anxious about the world's opinion; but I am alone in the world, and have no person to consider but myself, so, while I know myself to be free from blame or reproach, I care not for what any one may say of me, or think either."

"But still I should be very unhappy."

"What for?"

"To pass for being a happy as well as a lucky fellow, when, after the fashion of Papa Crétu's dinner, I should be expected to make a meal off a dry crust, while all the tempting dishes contained in a cookery-book were being read to me."

"Oh, nonsense! you will be quite contented to live as I describe. You will find me so grateful for every little act of kindness, so easily pleased, and so little troublesome, that I know you will say, 'Why, after all, I may as well spend my Sunday with her as with any one else.' If you have any time in the evening, and have no objection to come and sit with me, you can have the use of my fire and light. If it would not tire you to read aloud, you would amuse me by reading some nice novel or romance. Better do that than lose your money at cards or billiards; otherwise, if you are occupied at your office, or prefer going to a café, you can just bid me good night when you come in, if I happen still to be up; but should I have gone to bed, why then I will wish you good morning at an early hour next day, by tapping against your wainscot to awaken you. Why, M. Germain, my last fellow lodger, used to pass all his evenings with me in that manner, and never complained of their being dull. He read me all Walter Scott's novels in the course of the winter, which was really very amusing. Sometimes, when it chanced to be a wet Sunday, he would go and buy something at the pastry-cook's, and we used to have a nice little dinner in my room; and afterwards we amused ourselves with reading; and we liked that almost as well as going to the theatre. You see by this that I am not hard to please, but, on the contrary, am always ready to do what I can to make things pleasant and agreeable. And then you were talking about illness. Oh, if ever you should be ill, then, indeed, I should be a comfort to you, a real Sister of Charity! Only ask the Morels what sort of a nurse I am. You don't half know your own good fortune, M. Rodolph; you have drawn a real prize in the lottery of good luck to have me for a neighbour, I can assure you."

"I quite agree with you; but I always was lucky. Apropos of your late fellow lodger, M. Germain, where is he at present?"

"In Paris, I believe."

"Then you do not see much of him now?"

"No, he has never been to see me since he quitted the house."

"But where is he living? And what is he doing at present?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because," said Rodolph, smiling, "I am jealous of him, and I wish – "

"Jealous!" exclaimed Rigolette, bursting into a fit of laughter. "La, bless you, there is no occasion for that, poor fellow!"

"But, seriously, my good neighbour, I wish most particularly to obtain M. Germain's address, or to be enabled to meet him. You know where he lives; and without any boast, I think I have good reason to expect you would trust me with the secret of his residence, and to believe me quite incapable of revealing again the information I ask of you, assuring you most solemnly it is for his own interest more than mine I am solicitous of finding him."

"And seriously, my good neighbour, although it is probable and possible your intentions towards M. Germain are as you report them, I am not at liberty to give you the address of M. Germain, he having strictly and expressly forbidden my so doing to any person whatever; therefore, when I refuse to tell you, you may be quite sure it is because I really am not at liberty to do so; and that ought not to make you feel offended with me. If you had entrusted me with a secret, you would be pleased, would you not, to have me as careful of it, and determined not to reveal it, as I am about M. Germain's affair?"

"Nay, but – "

"Neighbour, once and for all, do not say anything more on this subject. I have made a promise which I will keep faithfully and honourably; so now you know my mind, and if you ask me a hundred times, I shall answer you just the same."

Spite of her thoughtlessness and frivolity, the young dressmaker pronounced these last words with so much firmness that, to his great regret, Rodolph perceived the impossibility of gaining the desired information respecting Germain through her means; and his mind revolted at the idea of laying any snare to entrap her into a betrayal of her secret; he therefore, after a slight pause, gaily replied:

"Well, let us say no more about it, then; but, upon my life, I don't wonder at you, who can so well keep the secrets of others, guarding your own so closely."

"Me have secrets?" cried Rigolette. "I only wish I had some more secrets of my own; it must be very amusing to have secrets."

"Do you really mean to assert that you have not a 'nice little secret' about some love-affair?"

"Love-affair!"

"Are you going to persuade me you have never been in love?" said Rodolph, looking fixedly at Rigolette, the better to read the truth in her telltale features.

"Been in love? Why, of course I have, with M. Giraudeau, M. Cabrion, M. Germain, and you!"

"Are you sure you loved them just as you do me, neither more nor less?"

"Oh, really, I cannot tell you so very exactly! If anything, I should say less; because I had to become accustomed to the squinting eyes of M. Giraudeau, the disagreeable jokes and red beard of M. Cabrion, and the low spirits and constant dejection of M. Germain, for the poor young man was very sad, and always seemed to have a heavy load on his mind, while you, on the contrary, took my fancy directly I saw you."

"Come now, my pretty neighbour, you must not be angry with me; I am going to speak candidly and sincerely, like an old friend."

"Oh, don't be afraid to say anything to me; I am very good-natured; and besides, I feel certain you are too kind; you could never have the heart to say anything to me that would give me pain."

"You are quite right; but do tell me truly, have you never had any lovers?"

"Lovers! I should think not! What time have I for such things?"

"What has time got to do with it?"

"Why, everything, to be sure. In the first place, I should be jealous as a tigress; and I should be continually worrying myself with one idea or another; and let me ask you whether you think it is likely I could afford to lose two or three hours a day in fretting and grieving. And then, suppose my lover were to turn out false! Oh, what tears it would cost me; how wretched I should be! All that sort of thing would put me sadly behindhand with my work, I can tell you."

"Well, but all lovers are not faithless and a cause of grief and sorrow to their mistress."

"Oh, bless you! It would be still worse for me, if he were all goodness and truth. Why, then I should not be able to live without him for a single hour; and as most probably he would be obliged to remain all day in his office, or shop, or manufactory, I should be like some poor, restless spirit all the time of his absence. I should imagine all sorts of things, picture to myself his being at that moment pleasantly engaged in company with one he loved better than myself. And then, if he forsook me, oh, Heaven only knows what I might be tempted to do in my despair, or what might become of me. One thing is very certain, that my work would suffer for it; and then what should I do? Why, quietly as I live at present, it is much as I can manage to live by working from twelve to fifteen hours a day. Where should I be, if I were to lose three or four days a week by tormenting myself? How could I ever catch up all that time? Oh, I never could; it would be quite impossible! I should be obliged, then, to take a situation, to live under the control of a mistress; but no, no, I will never bring myself to that, – I love my liberty too well."

"Your liberty?"

"Yes, I might go as forewoman to the person who keeps the warehouse for which I work; she would give me four hundred francs a year, with board and lodging."

"And you will not accept it?"

"No, indeed! I should then be the slave and servant of another; whereas, however humble my home, at least there is no one there to control me. I am free to come and go as I please. I owe nothing to any one. I have good health, good courage, good heart, and good spirits; and now that I can say a good neighbour also, what is there left to desire?"

"Then you have never thought of marriage?"

"Marriage, indeed! Why, what would be the use of my thinking about it, when, poor as I am, I could not expect to meet with a husband better off than myself? Look at the poor Morels; just see the consequences of burthening yourself with a family before you have the means of providing for one; whilst, so long as there is only oneself to provide for, one can always manage somehow."

"And do you never build castles in the air? – never dream?"

"Dream? Oh, yes! – of my chimney ornaments; but, besides them, what can I have to wish for?"

"But, suppose now some relation you never heard of in your life were to die, and leave you a nice little fortune – twelve hundred francs a year, for instance – you have made five hundred sufficient to supply all your wants?"

"Perhaps it might prove a good thing; perhaps a bad one."

"How could it be a bad one?"

"Because I am happy and contented as I am; but I do not know what I might be if I came to be rich. I can assure you that, when, after a hard day's work, I go to bed in my own snug little room, when my lamp is extinguished, and by the glimmer of the few cinders left in my stove I see my neat, clean little apartment, my curtains, my chest of drawers, my chairs, my birds, my watch, my table covered with the work confided to me, left all ready to begin the first thing in the morning, and I say to myself, all this is mine, – I have no one to thank for it but myself, – oh, neighbour, the very thoughts lull me into such a happy state of mind that I fall asleep believing myself the most fortunate creature on earth to be so surrounded with comforts. But, I declare, here we are at the Temple! You must own it is a beautiful object?"

Although not partaking of the profound admiration expressed by Rigolette at the first glimpse of the Temple, Rodolph was, nevertheless, much struck by the singular appearance of this enormous bazar with its many diverging passages and dependencies. Towards the middle of the Rue du Temple, not far from the fountain which stands in the corner of a large square, may be seen an immense parallelogram, built of wood, and surmounted with a slated roof. This building is the Temple, bounded on the left by the Rue du Petit Thouars, and on the right by the Rue Percée; it leads to a large circular building, – a colossal rotunda, surrounded with a gallery, forming a sort of arcade. A long opening, intersecting this parallelogram in its length and breadth, divides it into two equal parts, which are again divided and subdivided into an infinity of small lateral and transverse openings, crossing each other in all directions, and sheltered by the roof of the building from all severity of weather. In this bazar new merchandise is generally prohibited; but the smallest fragment of any sort of material, the merest morsel of iron, brass, lead, or pewter, will here find both a buyer and a seller.

Here are to be found dealers in pieces of every coloured cloth, of all ages, qualities, shades, and capabilities, for the service of such as wish to repair or alter damaged or ill-fitting garments. Some of the shops present huge piles of old shoes, some trodden down of heel, others twisted, torn, worn, split, and in holes, presenting a mass of nameless, formless, colourless objects, among which are grimly visible some species of fossil soles about an inch thick, studded with thick nails, resembling the door of a prison and hard as a horse's hoof, the actual skeletons of shoes whose other component parts have long since been consumed by the devouring hand of Time. Yet all this mouldy, dried up accumulation of decaying rubbish will find a willing purchaser, an extensive body of merchants trading in this particular line.

Then there are the vendors of gimps, fringes, bindings, cords, tassels, and edgings of silk, cotton, or thread, arising out of the demolition of curtains past all cure and defying all reparation. Other enterprising individuals devote themselves to the sale of females' hats and bonnets, these articles only reaching their emporium by the means of the dealers in old clothes, and after having performed the strangest journeys and undergone the most surprising transformations, the most singular changes of colour.

In order that the article traded in may not take up too much room in a warehouse ordinarily the size of a large box, these bonnets are carefully folded in half, then flattened and laid upon each other as closely as they can be packed, with the exception of the brim. They are treated in every respect the same as herrings, requiring to be stowed in a cask. By these means it is almost incredible what a quantity of these usually fragile articles may be accommodated in a small space of about four feet square.

Should a purchaser present himself, the various specimens are removed from the high pressure to which they have been exposed, the vendor, with a dégagé air, gives the crown a dexterous blow with his fist, which makes the centre rise to its accustomed situation, then presses the front out upon his knee, concluding by holding up, with an air of intense satisfaction at his own ingenuity, an object so wild, so whimsical, and withal so irresistibly striking, as to remind one of those traditional costumes ascribed for ages past to fishwomen, apple-women, or any whose avocation involves the necessity of carrying a basket on the head.

Farther on, at the sign of the Goût du Jour, beneath the arcades of the Rotunda, elevated at the end of the large opening which intersects the Temple and divides it into two parts, are suspended myriads of vestments of all colours, forms, and fashions, even more various and extraordinary in their respective styles than the bonnets just described. There may be seen stylish coats of unbleached linen, adorned with three rows of brass buttons à la hussarde, and sprucely ornamented with a small fur collar of fox-skin; great-coats, originally bottle-green, but changed, by age and service, to the hue of the pistachio nut, edged with black braid, and set off with a bright flaming lining of blue and yellow plaid, giving quite a fresh and youthful appearance, and producing the most genteel and tasty effect; coats that, when new, bore the appellation, as regards their cut, of being à queue de Morue, of a dark drab colour, with velvet, shag, or plush collar, and further decorated with buttons, once silver-gilt, but now changed to a dull coppery hue. In the same emporium may be observed sundry pelisses or polonaises of maroon-coloured cloth, with cat-skin collar, trimmed with braiding, and rich in brandenburgs, tassels, and cords. Not far from these are displayed a great choice of dressing-gowns most artistically constructed out of old cloaks, whose triple collars and capes have been removed, the inside lined with remnants of printed cotton, the most in request being blue or dark green, made up here and there with pieces of various distinct shades, and embroidered with old braid, and lined with red cotton, on which is traced a flowing design in vivid orange, collar and cuffs similarly adorned; a cord for the waist, made out of an old bell-rope, serves as a finish to these elegant déshabillés so exultingly worn by Robert Macaire. We shall briefly pass over a mass of costumes more or less uncouth, in the midst of which may be found some real and authentic relics of royalty or greatness, dragged by the revolution of time from the palaces of the rich and mighty to the dingy shelves of the Rotunda of the Temple.

These displays of old shoes, hats, and coats are the grotesque parts of the bazar, – the place where rags and faded finery seek to set up their claim to notice. But it must be allowed, or rather distinctly asserted, that the vast establishment we are describing is of immense utility to the poor or persons in mediocre circumstances. There they may purchase, at an amazing decrease of price, most excellent articles, nearly new, and whose wear has been little or none. One side of the Temple was devoted to articles of bedding, and contained piles of blankets, sheets, mattresses, and pillows. Farther on were carpets, curtains, every description of useful household utensil. Close at hand were stores of wearing apparel, shoes, stockings, caps, and bonnets, for all ages, as well as all classes and conditions.

All these articles were scrupulously clean and devoid of anything that could offend or shock the most fastidious person. Those who have never visited this bazar will scarcely credit in how short a space of time, and with how little money, a cart may be filled with every requisite for the complete fitting out of two or three utterly destitute families.

Rodolph was particularly struck with the manner, at once attentive, eager, and cheerful, of the various dealers, as, standing at the door of their shops, they solicited the patronage and custom of the passers-by. Their mode of address, at once familiar and respectful, seemed altogether unlike the tone of the present day. Scarcely had Rigolette and her companion entered that part of the place devoted to the sale of bedding, than they were surrounded by the most seducing offers and solicitations.

"Walk in, sir, and look at my mattresses, if you please," said one. "They are quite new. I will just open a corner to show you how beautifully white and soft the wool is, – more like the wool of a lamb than a sheep."

"My pretty lady, step in and see my beautiful, fine white sheets. They are better than new, for the first stiffness has been taken out of them. They are soft as a glove, and strong as iron."

"Come, my new-married couple, treat yourselves to one of my handsome counterpanes. Only see how soft, light, and warm it is, – quite as good as eider-down, – every bit the same as new, – never been used twenty times. Now, then, my good lady, persuade your husband to treat you to one. Let me have the pleasure of serving you, and I will fit you up for housekeeping as cheaply as you can desire. Oh, you'll be pleased, I know, – you'll come again to see Mother Bouvard! You will find I keep everything. I bought a splendid lot of second-hand goods yesterday. Pray walk in and let me have the pleasure of showing them to you. Come, you may as well see if you don't buy. I shall charge you nothing for looking at them."

"I tell you what, neighbour," said Rodolph to Rigolette, "this fat old lady shall have the preference. She takes us for husband and wife. I am so pleased with her for the idea that I decide upon laying out my money at her shop."

"Well, then, let it be the fat old lady," said Rigolette. "I like her appearance, too."

Rigolette and her companion then went into Mother Bouvard's. By a magnanimity, perhaps unexampled before in the Temple, the rivals of Mother Bouvard made no disturbance at the preference awarded to her. One of her neighbours, indeed, went so far as to say:

"So long as it is Mother Bouvard, and no one else, that has this customer; she has a family, and is the dowager and the honour of the Temple."

It was, indeed, impossible to have a face more prepossessing, more open, and more frank than that of the dowager of the Temple.

"Here, my pretty little woman," she said to Rigolette, who was looking at sundry articles with the eye of a connoisseur, "this is the second-hand bargain I told you of: two bed furnitures and bedding complete, and as good as new. If you would like a small old secrétaire very cheap, here is one (and Mother Bouvard pointed to one). I had it in the same lot. I do not usually buy furniture, but I could not refuse this, for the poor people of whom I had it appeared to be so very unhappy! Poor lady! it was the sale of this piece of furniture which seemed to cut her to the very heart. I dare say it was a family piece of 'furniture.'"

At these words, and whilst the shopkeeper was settling with Rigolette as to the prices of the various articles of purchase, Rodolph was attentively looking at the secrétaire which Mother Bouvard had pointed out. It was one of those ancient pieces of rosewood furniture, almost triangular in shape, closed by a front panel, which let down, and, supported by two long brass hinges, served for a writing-table. In the centre of this panel, which was inlaid with ornaments of wood of different patterns, Rodolph observed a cipher let in, of ebony, and which consisted of an M. and an R., intertwined and surmounted with a count's coronet. He conjectured, therefore, that the last possessor of this piece of furniture was a person in an elevated rank of society. His curiosity increased, and he looked at the secrétaire with redoubled scrutiny; he opened the drawers mechanically, one after the other, when, having some difficulty in drawing out the last, and trying to discover the obstacle, he perceived, and drew carefully out, a sheet of paper, half shut up between the drawer and the bottom of the opening. Whilst Rigolette was concluding her bargain with Mother Bouvard, Rodolph was engrossed in examining what he had found. From the numerous erasures which covered this paper, he perceived that it was the copy of an unfinished letter. Rodolph, with considerable difficulty, made out what follows:

"Sir: Be assured that the most extreme misery alone could compel me to the step which I now take. It is not mistaken pride which causes my scruples, but the absolute want of any and every claim on you for the service which I am about to ask. The sight of my daughter, reduced, as well as myself, to the most frightful destitution, has made me throw aside all hesitation. A few words only as to the cause of the misfortunes which have overwhelmed me. After the death of my husband, all my fortune was three hundred thousand francs (12,000l.), which was placed by my brother with M. Jacques Ferrand, the notary; I received at Angers, whither I had settled with my daughter, the interest of this sum, remitted to me by my brother. You know, sir, the horrible event which put an end to his days. Ruined, as it seems, by secret and unfortunate speculations, he put an end to his existence eight months since. After this sad event, I received a few lines, written by him in desperation before this awful deed. 'When I should peruse them,' he wrote, 'he should no longer exist.' He terminated this letter by informing me that he had not any acknowledgment of the sum which he had placed, in my name, with M. Jacques Ferrand, as that individual never gave any receipt, but was honour and piety itself; that, therefore, it would be sufficient for me to present myself to that gentleman, and my business would be regularly and satisfactorily adjusted. As soon as I was able to turn my attention to anything besides the mournful end of my poor brother, I came to Paris, where I knew no one, sir, but yourself, and you only by the connection that had subsisted between yourself and my husband. I have told you that the sum deposited with M. Jacques Ferrand was my entire fortune, and that my brother forwarded to me every six months the interest which arose from that sum. More than a year had elapsed since the last payment, and, consequently, I went to M. Jacques Ferrand to ask the amount of him, as I was greatly in want of it. Scarcely was I in his presence, than, without any consideration of my grief, he accused my brother of having borrowed two thousand francs of him, which he had lost by his death, adding, that not only was suicide a crime before God and man, but, also, that it was an act of robbery, of which he, M. Jacques Ferrand, was the victim. I was indignant at such language, for the remarkable probity of my poor brother was well known; he had, it is true, unknown to me and his friends, lost his fortune in hazardous speculations, but he had died with an unspotted reputation, deeply regretted by all, and not leaving any debt except to his notary. I replied to M. Ferrand, that I authorised him at once to take the two thousand francs, which he claimed from my brother, from the three hundred thousand francs of mine, which had been deposited with him. At these words, he looked at me with an air of utter astonishment, and asked me what three hundred thousand francs I alluded to. 'To those which my brother placed in your hands eighteen months ago, sir, and of which I have, till now, received the interest paid by you through my brother,' I replied, not comprehending his question. The notary shrugged his shoulders, smiled disdainfully, as if my words were not serious, and replied that, so far from depositing any money with him, my brother had borrowed two thousand francs from him.

"It is impossible for me to express to you my horror at this reply. 'What, then, has become of this sum?' I exclaimed. 'My daughter and myself have no other resource, and, if we are deprived of that, nothing remains for us but complete wretchedness. What will become of us?' 'I really don't know,' replied the notary, coldly. 'It is most probable that your brother, instead of placing this sum with me, as you say, has used it in those unfortunate speculations in which, unknown to any one, he was engaged.' 'It is false, sir!' I exclaimed. 'My brother was honour itself, and, so far from despoiling me and my daughter, he would have sacrificed himself for us. He would never marry, in order that he might leave all he had to my child.' 'Dare you to assert, madame, that I am capable of denying a deposit confided in me?' inquired the notary, with indignation, which seemed so honourable and sincere that I replied, 'No, certainly not, sir; your reputation for probity is well known; but yet I can never accuse my brother of so cruel an abuse of confidence.' 'What are your proofs of this claim?' inquired M. Ferrand. 'I have none, sir. Eighteen months since, my brother, who undertook the management of my affairs, wrote to me, saying, "I have an excellent opportunity of obtaining six per cent.; send me your power of attorney to sell your stock, and I will deposit the three hundred thousand francs, which I will make up, with M. Jacques Ferrand, the notary." I sent the papers which he asked for to my brother, and a few days afterwards he informed me that the investment was made by you, and at the end of six months he remitted to me the interest due.' 'At least, then, you have some letters on this subject, madame?' 'No, sir; they were only on family matters, and I did not preserve them.' 'Unfortunately, madame, I cannot do anything in this matter,' replied the notary. 'If my honesty was not beyond all suspicion, all attack, I should say to you, the courts of law are open to you, – attack me; the judges will have to choose between the word of an honourable man, who for thirty years has had the esteem of worthy men, and the posthumous declaration of a man who, after being ruined in most foolish undertakings, has found refuge only in suicide. I say to you now, attack me, madame, if you dare, and your brother's memory will be dishonoured! But I believe you will have the good sense to resign yourself to a misfortune which, no doubt, is very severe, but to which I am an entire stranger.' 'But, sir, I am a mother! If my fortune is lost, my daughter and I have nothing left but a small stock of furniture; if that is sold, we have nothing left, sir, – nothing, but the most frightful destitution staring us in the face.' 'You have been cheated, – it is a misfortune, but I can do nothing in the matter,' answered the notary. 'Once more, madame, your brother has deceived you. If you doubt between his word and mine, attack me; go to law, and the judges will decide.' I quitted the notary's in the deepest despair. What could I do in this extremity? I had no means of proving the validity of my claim; I was convinced of the strict honour of my brother, and confounded at the assertion of M. Ferrand, and having no person to whom I could turn for advice (for you were travelling), and knowing that I must have money to pay for legal opinions and advice, and desiring to preserve the very little that I had left, I dared not commence a suit at law. It was at this juncture – "

This sketch of the letter ended here, for what followed was covered with ink erasures, which completely blotted out the lines. At the bottom of the page, and in the corner, Rodolph found this kind of memorandum:

"To write to the Duchesse de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy."

Rodolph remained deeply thoughtful after the perusal of this fragment of a letter, in which he had found two names whose connection struck him. Although the fresh infamy which appeared to accuse Jacques Ferrand was not proved, yet this man had proved himself so pitiless towards the unhappy Morel, had behaved so shamefully to Louise, his daughter, that the denial of a deposit, protected by certain impunity, on the part of such a wretch, appeared to him by no means improbable. This mother, who claimed a fortune which had disappeared so strangely, was, doubtless, used to a life of ease and comfort. Ruined by a sudden blow, and knowing no one in Paris, as the letter said, what must have been the existence of these two females, perhaps utterly destitute and alone in the midst of this vast metropolis!

The prince had, as we know, promised sure occupation to madame, by giving her accidentally, and to employ her mind, a part to play in some future work of charity, being certain to find sure misery for her to curtail before his next meeting with that lady. He thought that, perhaps, chance might bring before him some unfortunate and worthy person, who would, as he trusted, interest the heart and imagination of Madame d'Harville. The sketch of the letter which he held in his hands, and the copy of which had, doubtless, never been sent to the person whose assistance was implored, evinced a high and resigned mind, which would revolt from an offer of alms. So, then, how many precautions, how many plans, how much delicacy, must be employed to conceal the source of such generous succour, or to make it accepted! And, then, how much address to introduce oneself to such a female, in order to judge if she really merited the interest which she seemed capable of inspiring! Rodolph foresaw in the development of this mysterious affair a multitude of new and touching emotions, which would singularly attract Madame d'Harville in the way he had previously proposed to her.

"Well, husband," said Rigolette, gaily, to Rodolph, "what is there so interesting in that piece of paper, which you are reading there?"

"My little wife," replied Rodolph, "you are very inquisitive; I will tell you by and by. Have you bought all you want?"

"Yes; and your poor friends will be set up like kings. There is nothing to do now but to pay; Madame Bouvard has made every allowance, I must do her that credit."

"My little wife, an idea occurs to me; whilst I am paying, suppose you go and choose the clothes for Madame Morel and her children? I confess my ignorance on the subject of such purchases. You can tell them to bring everything here, and then all the things will be together, and the poor people will have everything at once."

"You are right, husband. Wait here, and I shall not be long; I know two shopkeepers here, where I am a regular customer, and I shall find in their shops all I require."

And Rigolette went out, saying:

"Madame Bouvard, take care of my husband, and do not flirt with him, mind, whilst I am gone."

And then came the laugh, and away the merry maiden ran.

"I must say, sir," said Mother Bouvard to Rodolph, "that you have a capital little manager there. Peste! she knows how to make a bargain! And then she is so prettily behaved and pretty-looking! red and white, with those large, beautiful black eyes, and such hair!"

"Is she not charming? and ain't I a happy husband, Madame Bouvard?"

"As happy a husband as she is a wife, I am sure of that."

"You are not mistaken. But tell me how much I owe you."

"Your little lady would only give me three hundred and thirty francs for the whole; as true as heaven's above us, I only make fifteen francs by the bargain, for I did not try to get the things as cheaply as I might, for I hadn't the heart to bate 'em down; the people who sold 'em seemed so uncommon miserable!"

"Really! Were they the same people that you bought this little secrétaire of?"

"Yes, sir; and it cuts my heart to think of it! Only imagine, the day before yesterday there came here a young and still pretty girl, but so pale and thin one could almost see through her; and you know that pains people that have any feeling at all. Although she was, as they say, neat as a new-made pin, her old threadbare black worsted shawl, her black stuff gown, which was also worn bare, her straw bonnet, in the month of January, for she was in mourning, all showed what we call great distress, for I am sure she was a real lady. At last, blushing up to the very eyes, she asked me if I would buy two beds and bedding complete, and a little old secrétaire. I said that, as I sold, of course I bought, and that if they would suit me I would have them, but that I must see the things. She then asked me to go with her to her apartment, not far off, on the other side of the Boulevards, in a house on the Quay of St. Martin's Canal. I left my niece in the shop, and followed the lady until we reached a smallish house at the bottom of a court; we went up to the fourth floor, and, the lady having knocked, the door was opened by a young girl about fourteen years of age, who was also in mourning, and equally pale and thin, but still very, very pretty, so much so that I was quite astonished."

"Well, and this young girl?"

"Was the daughter of the lady in mourning. Though it was very cold, yet a thin gown of black cotton with white spots, and a small, shabby mourning shawl, that was all she had on her."

"And their rooms were wretched?"

"Imagine, sir, two little rooms, very neat, but nearly empty, and so cold that I was almost froze; there was not a spark of fire in the grate, nor any appearance of there having been any for a very long time. All the furniture was two beds, two chairs, a chest of drawers, an old portmanteau, and the small secrétaire, and on the chest was a parcel, wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief. This small parcel was all the mother and child had left when their furniture was once sold. The landlord had taken the two bedsteads, the chairs, a trunk, and a table, for what was due to him, as the porter said, who had gone up-stairs with us. Then the lady begged me fairly to estimate the mattresses, sheets, curtains, and quilts; and, as I am an honest woman, sir, although it is my business to buy cheap and sell dear, yet, when I saw the poor young thing with her eyes full of tears, and her mother, who, in spite of her affected calmness, seemed to be weeping in her heart, I offered for the things fifteen francs more than they were worth to sell again, I swear I did; I agreed, too, just to oblige them, to take this small secrétaire, although it is not a sort of thing I ever deal in."

"I will buy it of you, Madame Bouvard."

"Will you though? So much the better, sir, for it is else likely to stay with me for some time; I took it, as I say, only to oblige the poor lady. I told her then what I would give for the things, and I expected that she would haggle a bit and ask me something more, I did. Then it was that I saw she was not one of the common; she was in downright misery, she was, and no mistake about it, I am sure! I says to her, 'It's worth so much,' She answers me, and says, 'Very well; let us go back to your shop, and you can pay me there, for we shall not return here again to this house.' Then she says to her daughter, who was sitting on the trunk a-crying, 'Claire, take this bundle.' I remember her name, and I'm sure she called her Claire. Then the young lady got up, but, as she was crossing the room, as she came to the little secrétaire she went down on her knees before it, and, dear heart! how the poor thing did sob! 'Courage, my dear child; remember some one sees you,' said her mother to her, in a low voice, but yet I heard her. You may tell, sir, they were poor, but very proud notwithstanding. When the lady gave me the key of the little secrétaire, I saw a tear in her red eyes, and it seemed as if her very heart bled at parting with this old piece of furniture; but she tried to keep up her courage, and not seem downcast before strangers. Then she told the porter that I should come and take away all that the landlord did not keep, and after that we came back here. The young lady gave her arm to her mother, and carried in her hand the small bundle, which contained all they possessed in the world. I handed them their three hundred and fifteen francs, and then I never saw them again."

"But their name?"

"I don't know; the lady sold me the things in the presence of the porter, and so I had no occasion to ask her name, for what she sold belonged to her."

"But their new address?"

"I don't know that either."

"No doubt they know at their old lodging?"

"No, sir; for, when I went back to get the things, the porter told me, speaking of the mother and daughter, 'that they were very quiet people, very respectable, and very unfortunate, – I hope no misfortune has happened to them! They appeared to be very calm and composed, but I am sure they were quite in despair.' 'And where are they gone now to lodge?' I asked. 'Ma foi, I don't know!' was the answer; 'they left without telling me, and I am sure they will not return here.'"

The hopes which Rodolph had entertained for a moment vanished; how could he go to work to discover these two unfortunate females, when all the trace he had of them was that the young daughter's name was Claire, and the fragment of a letter, of which we have already made mention, and at the bottom of which were these words:

"To write to Madame de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy?"

The only, and very remote chance of discovering the traces of these unfortunates was through Madame de Lucenay, who, fortunately, was on intimate terms with Madame d'Harville.

"Here, ma'am, be so good as to take your money," said Rodolph to the shopkeeper, handing her a note for five hundred francs.

"I will give you the change, sir. What is your address?"

"Rue du Temple, No. 17."

"Rue du Temple, No. 17; oh, very well, very well, I know it."

"Have you ever been to that house?"

"Often. First I bought the furniture of a woman there, who lent money on wages; it is not a very creditable business, to be sure, but that's no affair of mine, – she sells, I buy, and so that's settled. Another time, not six weeks ago, I went there again for the furniture of a young man, who lived on the fourth floor, and was moving away."

"M. François Germain, perhaps?" said Rodolph.

"Just so. Did you know him?"

"Very well; and, unfortunately, he has not left his present address in the Rue du Temple, so I do not know where to find him. But where shall we find a cart to take the goods?"

"As it is not far, a large truck will do, and old Jérome is close by, my regular commissionaire. If you wish to know the address of M. François Germain, I can help you."

"What? Do you know where he lives?"

"Not exactly, but I know where you may be sure to meet with him."

"Where?"

"At the notary's where he works."

"At a notary's?"

"Yes, who lives in the Rue du Sentier."

"M. Jacques Ferrand?" exclaimed Rodolph.

"Yes; and a very worthy man he is. There is a crucifix and some holy boxwood in his study; it looks just as if one was in a sacristy."

"But how did you know that M. Germain worked at this notary's?"

"Why, this way: this young man came to me to ask me to buy his little lot of furniture all of a lump. So that time, too, though rather out of my line, I bought all his kit, and brought it here, because he seemed a nice young fellow, and I had a pleasure in obliging him. Well, I bought him right clean out, and I paid him well; he was, no doubt, very well satisfied, for, a fortnight afterwards, he came again, to buy some bed furniture from me. A commissionaire, with a truck, went with him, everything was packed: well, but, at the moment he was going to pay me, lo and behold! he had forgotten his purse; but he looked so like an honest man that I said to him, 'Take the things with you, – never mind, I shall be passing your way, and will call for the money.' 'Very good,' says he; 'but I am never at home, so call to-morrow in the Rue du Sentier, at M. Jacques Ferrand's, the notary, where I am employed, and I will pay you.' I went next day, and he paid me; only, what was very odd to me was that he sold his things, and then, a fortnight afterwards, he buys others."

Rodolph thought that he was able to account for this singular fact. Germain was desirous of destroying every trace from the wretches who were pursuing him: fearing, no doubt, that his removal might put them on the scent of his fresh abode, he had preferred, in order to avoid this danger, selling his goods, and afterwards buying others.

The prince was overjoyed to think of the happiness in store for Madame Georges, who would thus, at length, see again that son so long and vainly sought.

Rigolette now returned, with a joyful eye and smiling lips.

"Well, did not I tell you so?" she exclaimed. "I am not deceived: we shall have spent six hundred and forty francs all together, and the Morels will be set up like princes. Here come the shopkeepers; are they not loaded? Nothing will now be wanting for the family; they will have everything requisite, even to a gridiron, two newly tinned saucepans, and a coffee-pot. I said to myself, since they are to have things done so grandly, let them be grand; and, with all that, I shall not have lost more than three hours. But come, neighbour, pay as quickly as you can, and let us be gone. It will soon be noon, and my needle must go at a famous rate to make up for this morning."

Rodolph paid, and quitted the Temple with Rigolette.

At the moment when the grisette and her companion were entering the passage, they were almost knocked over by Madame Pipelet, who was running out, frightened, troubled, and aghast.

"Mercy on us!" said Rigolette, "what ails you, Madame Pipelet? Where are you running to in that manner?"

"Is it you, Mlle. Rigolette?" exclaimed Anastasie; "it is Providence that sends you; help me to save the life of Alfred."

"What do you mean?"

"The darling old duck has fainted. Have mercy on us! Run for me, and get me two sous' worth of absinthe at the dram-shop, – the strongest, mind; it is his remedy when he is indisposed in the pylorus, – that generally sets him up again. Be kind, and do not refuse me, I can then return to Alfred; I am all over in such a fluster."

Rigolette let go Rodolph's arm, and ran quickly to the dram-shop.

"But what has happened, Madame Pipelet?" inquired Rodolph, following the porteress into the lodge.

"How can I tell, my worthy sir? I had gone out to the mayor's, to church, and the cook-shop, to save Alfred so much trotting about; I returned, and what should I see but the dear old cosset with his legs and arms all in the air! There, M. Rodolph," said Anastasie, opening the door of her dog-hole, "say if that is not enough to break one's heart!"

Lamentable spectacle! With his bell-crowned hat still on his head, even further on than usual, for the ambiguous castor, pushed down, no doubt, by violence, to judge by a transverse gap, covered M. Pipelet's eyes, who was on his back on the ground at the foot of his bed. The fainting was over, and Alfred was beginning to make some slight gesticulations with his hands, as if he sought to repulse somebody or something, and then he tried to push off this troublesome visor, with which he had been bonneted.

"He kicks, – that's a beautiful symptom! He comes to!" exclaimed the porteress, who, stooping down, bawled in his ears, "What's the matter with my Alfred? It's his 'Stasie who is with him. How goes it now? There's some absinthe coming, that will set you up." Then, assuming a falsetto voice of much endearment, she added: "What, did they abuse and assassinate him, – the dear old darling, the delight of his 'Stasie, eh?"

Alfred heaved an immense sigh, and, with a mighty groan, uttered the fatal word:

"Cabrion!"

And his tremulous hands again seemed desirous of repulsing the fearful vision.

"Cabrion! What, that cussed painter again?" exclaimed Madame Pipelet. "Alfred dreamed of him all night long, so that he kicked me almost to death. This monster is his nightmare; not only does he poison his days, but he poisons his nights also, – he pursues him in his very sleep; yes, sir, as though Alfred was a malefactor, and this Cabrion, whom may Heaven confound! was his unceasing remorse."

Rodolph smiled, discreetly detecting some new freak of Rigolette's former neighbour.

"Alfred! answer me; don't remain mute, you frighten me," said Madame Pipelet; "let's try and get you up. Why, lovey, do you keep thinking of that vagabond fellow? You know that, when you think of that fellow, it has the same effect on you that cabbage has, – it fills up your pylorus and stifles you."

"Cabrion!" repeated M. Pipelet, pushing up, with an effort, the hat which had fallen so low over his eyes, which he rolled around him with an affrighted air.

Rigolette entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe.

"Thankee, ma'amselle, you are so kind!" said the old body; and then she added, "Come, deary, suck this down, that will make you all right."

And Anastasie, presenting the phial quickly to M. Pipelet's lips, contrived to make him swallow the absinthe. In vain did Alfred struggle vigorously. His wife, taking advantage of the victim's weakness, held up his head firmly with one hand, whilst with the other she introduced the neck of the little bottle between his teeth, and compelled him to swallow the absinthe, after which she exclaimed, triumphantly:

"Ther-r-r-r-e, now-w-w! you're on your pins again, my ducky!"

And Alfred, having wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, opened his eyes, rose, and inquired, in accents of alarm:

"Have you seen him?"

"Who?"

"Is he gone?"

"Who, Alfred?"

"Cabrion!"

"Has he dared – " asked the porteress.

M. Pipelet, as mute as the statue of the commandant, like that redoubtable spectre, bowed his head twice with an affirmative air.

"What! has M. Cabrion been here?" inquired Rigolette, repressing a violent desire to laugh.

"What! has the monster been unchained on Alfred?" said Madame Pipelet. "Oh, if I had been there with my broom, he should have swallowed it, handle and all! But tell us, Alfred, all about this horrid affair."

M. Pipelet made signs with his hand that he was about to speak, and they listened to the man with the bell-crowned hat in religious silence, whilst he expressed himself in these terms, and in a voice of deep emotion:

"My wife had left me, to save me the trouble of going out, according to the request of monsieur," bowing to Rodolph, "to the mayor's, to church, and the cook-shop."

"The dear old darling had had the nightmare all night, and I wished to save him the journey," said Anastasie.

"This nightmare was sent me as a warning from on high," responded the porter, religiously. "I had dreamed of Cabrion, and I was to suffer from Cabrion. Here was I sitting quietly in front of my table, reflecting on an alteration which I wished to make in the upper leather of this boot confided to my hands, when I heard a noise, a rustling, at the window of my lodge, – was it a presentiment, a warning from on high? My heart beat, I lifted up my head, and, through the pane of glass, I saw – I saw – "

"Cabrion!" exclaimed Anastasie, clasping her hands.

"Cabrion!" replied M. Pipelet, gloomily. "His hideous face was there, pressed close against the window, and he was looking at me with eyes like a cat's – what do I say? – a tiger's! just as in my dream. I tried to speak, but my tongue clave to my mouth; I tried to rise, I was nailed to my seat. My boot fell from my hands, and, as in all the critical and important events of my life, I remained perfectly motionless. Then the key turned in the lock, the door opened, – Cabrion entered!"

"He entered? Owdacious monster!" replied Madame Pipelet, as much astonished as her spouse at such audacity.

"He entered slowly," resumed Alfred, "stopped a moment at the threshold, as if to fascinate me with his look, atrocious as it was, then he advanced towards me, pausing at each step, and piercing me through with his eye, but not uttering a word, – straight, mute, and threatening as a phantom!"

"I declare, my very heart aches to hear him," said Anastasie.

"I remained still more motionless, and glued to my chair; Cabrion still advanced slowly towards me, fixing his eye as the serpent glares at the bird; he so frightened me that, in spite of myself, I kept my eye on him; he came close to me, and then I could no longer endure his revolting aspect, it was too much, and I could not. I shut my eyes, and then I felt that he dared to place his hands upon my hat, which he took by the crown and lifted gently off my head, leaving it bare. I began to be seized with vertigo, my breathing was suspended, there was a singing in my ears, and I was completely fastened to my seat, and I closed my eyes still closer and closer. Then Cabrion stooped, took my head between his hands, which were as cold as death, and on my forehead, covered with an icy damp, he deposited a brazen kiss, indecent wretch!"

Anastasie lifted her hands towards heaven.

"My enemy, the most deadly, imprinted a kiss on my forehead; such a monstrosity overcame and paralysed me. Cabrion profited by my stupor to place my hat on my head, and then, with a blow of his fist, drove it down over my eyes, as you saw. This last outrage destroyed me; the measure was full, all about me was turning around, and I fainted at the moment when I saw him, from under the rim of my hat, leave the lodge as quietly and slowly as he had entered."

Then, as if the recital had exhausted all his strength, M. Pipelet fell back in his chair, raising his hands to heaven in a manner of mute imprecation. Rigolette went out quickly; she could not restrain herself any longer; her desire to laugh almost stifled her. Rodolph had the greatest difficulty to keep his countenance.

Suddenly there was a confused murmur, such as announces the arrival of a mob, heard from the street, and a great noise came from the door at the top of the entrance, and then butts of grounded muskets were heard on the steps of the door.